Grief Revisited
by CrysWimmer
Summary: Even years later, dealing with the loss of a loved one isn't easy... but sharing it can make it tolerable. Follows my original continuity (after Unexpected Consequences)


Grief Revisited

**By Crystal Wimmer**

7,538 words / Rated PG

Author's note:

This fic deals with death, but more so with the grief afterwards.  That may be hard for some people to stomach.  Serious angst alert.

William Adama paused before stepping into the small chapel that remained to serve the Galactica and its personnel.  He let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, primarily accomplished by candles, which was so different from the glaring overhead lights in the corridor he'd just left.

With space at a premium, rooms were not used idly, but when determining priorities towards the beginning of the war both he and Priest Elosha had been in agreement that having a religious sanctuary under the circumstances was a necessity.  All they really had left was faith, and that faith needed a tangible location to show for it.  So this one place had been set aside – a few pews made of the traditional wood, an alter with symbols for the Ancient Lords, and a few tokens given by members of the crew to represent many of their own religions.  Caprica alone had had several religions, and when added to the other eleven Colonies it made for a very crowded altar.

The majority of the Caprican religions had centered on the Twelve Lords, founders of their planets who acted as intercessors between humble humanity and the Great Creator.  So much of it was myth and legend that the Commander didn't even really know what he believed anymore. Childhood teachings battled with the logic of adulthood, and neither ever seemed to dominate at any given time.  But this chapel brought him comfort, and today that was what he sought. 

It had been six years since he'd lost his youngest son to an accident, and four years since he'd lost his wife, but on this single week each year he was faced with both of their birthdays, one right after the other, and the time never failed to wound him.  So much had been unsaid between himself and his family – so many years when he had placed the Colonial Service above them.  So many years he could not get back now that he wanted to have them.  The regret bombarding him was strongest in this week, and while it wasn't practical or logical, it was nevertheless a fact.  Especially today, on his wife's birthday, he felt the need to make amends in some way.  The Caprican tradition of lighting a candle and saying a simple prayer of thanks for loved ones lost was older that the planet itself, or so it seemed.  It wasn't much, but it was all he had.  Today he would light a candle for his beautiful Iilya, although she had not really been his at the end.  And later that week, with far more regret, he would light one for his baby boy.

It shouldn't have surprised him when he saw the shadow of a head down at the front of the small room, kneeling at the altar before the candles.  With a crew as large as the Galactica possessed, it was rare to find this room deserted.  Still, it was with some irritation that he walked down the center aisle, took his place before the candles – some lit and some new – and began to pray.

He heard the soft sound, a quiet intrusion into his own grief, and for a moment he regretted his selfish thoughts.  Everyone had lost someone, he realized.  His grief was no greater than that of others, and no more deserving of time and privacy.  And with the soft sound of another sniffle, he was faced with the clear understanding that the other person at the altar was crying, and doing their best to stifle the sound.  Tears had never bothered William Adama.  He'd seen his crew work through them, he'd shed more than a few himself if truth be told.  The crying was no reason for embarrassment, but he certainly wasn't going to humiliate the person concerned by telling them so.  The last thing a grieving man or woman needed was the commander to notice what they might perceive as weakness.

 Initially, he tried not to look, granting what little privacy he could to the individual out of simple respect.  He knew it was what he would want if the situation were reversed, and he was the one whose time had been intruded upon.  William Adama regretted that there was so little time – even now – in which to do something as simple as pray for lost loved ones.  There was always so much to be done for the living that they rarely had time to think of the dead.   But the sound was familiar and he eventually glanced to the side with his own grief suspended for a moment, or at least displaced by concern.

What he saw should not have been a surprise, and yet it was. His son.  Lee was kneeling at the altar in the traditional fashion, his head down and his eyes closed in prayer.  Adama had never raised his sons to be religious – hell, he hadn't raised them at all, but had left the task to Iilya – but there was clear familiarity in his son's actions.  He had done this before.  Often.

While it had been his own grief that had brought him to the tiny room, it was concern for his son which now held him.  Lee wasn't a man who cried easily or often.  In fact, William could remember only two instances he'd seen his son cry as an adult; once at his brother's funeral, and a second time on the day their world had been taken from them.  It took a lot to bring his son to tears.  William had to wonder if the pain his son was feeling was new, or if it was from old wounds such as his own.

So he waited.  For just a moment, he didn't hurt for himself – for the loss of time and the irrational decisions of his youth – but for the boy he had never really taken the time to know, and the man who didn't know him well enough to come to him, even in clear pain.

It was several moments before Lee sniffled again, shrugged a shoulder over one cheek to remove the tears, and opened his eyes.  The young man turned immediately, as though he knew he had been watched during this private time.  William said the only thing he could; what he always seemed to be saying.

"I'm sorry."

Lee shook his head, then ran his hands over his face as though to wipe away the pain as well as the tears.  "I'm fine," he clearly lied.

"Is it Kara?" he asked, puzzled.  If Lee was this upset, it made sense that he would go to her.  That he hadn't – that he was here alone – worried William.

Lee shook his head again.  "Old news," he said, adding a shrug to try to make the gesture look casual.  "I didn't want to upset her," he added.  "She has a hard enough time herself with remembering Zak.  I don't want to make it worse."

William nodded his understanding.  Zak's birthday was less than a week away.

"I mean, that's not the problem," Lee said with a sigh.  "But if I remind her of Mom…"

"She thinks of Zak," William finished for him.

Lee nodded.  "I don't know if it's better or worse having them at once.  Sometimes I think it would be easier if the days were spread out, but I don't think I could stand going through this twice a year."

William nodded, his grief returning as he realized that his son was not experiencing a new tragedy, but rather revisiting an old one.  "Iilya was always so annoyed that he didn't come on her birthday," he told Lee with a fragile smile.  "She wanted to share the celebration.  I told her to be grateful that she wasn't in labor on her day.  She just said that it would have been a blessing; she was so miserable towards the end of that pregnancy.  She wouldn't admit it, but I'm sure that's why she never wanted any other children."

Lee nodded, gazing back at the candles he'd apparently lit.  "I only come once," he admitted.  "For both of them.  Then I just try to forget it for another year.  Sometimes it seems like it gets harder rather than easier."

William's eyes closed in an echo of his son's pain.  "There's nothing in this world worse than outliving your child," he said softly.  "I don't think it gets any easier."

Lee shook his head.  "I'm learning to live with that," he said.  "Zak, I mean.  It hurts – and Lords I miss him – but I think with Mom it's harder."

William looked up in surprise.  His wife had lived a fairly long life, and a happy one at that although William had been more responsible for her difficulties than her triumphs.  She had never been truly unhappy so long as the boys were home, or so she had told him a few months before her death.  The reason she had left him was because she had needed more once she was alone.  The house was too big and too quiet, and she had needed someone there for her.  He couldn't fault her for wanting what every woman should have.  "Zak's been gone longer," William reasoned aloud.  "I suppose time makes it easier."

He watched Lee swallow, his gaze shifting to the candle had had apparently just lit.  "I don't remember a time when I wasn't a big brother," he said softly.  "But I don't remember a time when I was one, either.  Zak and I were close when we were younger, but once I hit secondary school he had his interests and I had mine.  I wish I'd spent more time with him, known him better.  I was just so tied up in making a career…"

"I understand," William said softly.

Lee shook his head again, another tear slipping down his face but he didn't bother wiping it away.  "With Zak it gets easier," he said softly.  "With Mom, it's harder every year."  He gave a forced smile.  "That sounds stupid, even to me.  It's not like she was a part of my life every day or anything.  I was out of the house as soon as I was old enough to go, and I didn't come home often either.  But I called a lot," he admitted, his tone almost sheepish.  "I remember with you…"

William waited a moment, but his son didn't continue.  "What about me?" he asked.  He was careful to keep any accusation out of his tone.  Lee rarely spoke with him this way, and he didn't want to slam any doors closed when they were just easing open.  They had forgiven one another years before – Lee for his father's failure to tell him the truth about Zak's death, and William for Lee's irrational anger – but still there had been little time to become a family.

Lee sighed.  "She never knew where you were," he admitted.  "Sometimes for weeks, and sometimes for months.  We both knew it wasn't your fault – military secrecy and all that – but sometimes the worry would get to her.  I promised myself I wouldn't do that to her.  I called her at least once a week, one way or another.  If I couldn't do that, I got a message out.  Most of the time I was at the Academy, so it wasn't hard.  We didn't do many deep probes before the war, even after I was assigned to a ship."

"I could have called, but I thought it would make it worse," William admitted softly.  "Every time I called, she cried.  It's not that I minded the tears," he added quickly, noting the quick brush of his son's hand over his face.  "But I just didn't want to hurt her any more.  I thought the less she was reminded, the easier it would be."

"For her or for you?"

William weighed the question for blame or anger, but he didn't find it.  Lee was asking a simple question; he needed a simple answer.  "I thought for both of us.  Maybe I was wrong."

"I kept up with Zak too," Lee said softly, his eyes once again leaving his father's.  "But not the same way.  Zak was… peripheral.  Always there, and I always loved him, but he was pretty independent.  If I called, he accused me of not trusting him.  So I waited for him to call, and usually it was Kara who did."

William smiled at that.  Kara.  She was one of the softest hearts he'd ever met, all wrapped up in the toughest package he'd ever seen.  Having no family of her own, she valued it above most other things in life and she guarded it carefully.  It was why she was always trying to get William together with Lee, father and son as they should be.  It was probably why she had been the same way with Lee and Zak.  "It's a hard week for her, too," William said gently.  "How is she holding up?"

"She keeps busy," Lee said.  "She doesn't talk about it much, which is weird because she's a talker.  I try not to push.  I give her openings, but usually she changes the subject and I leave it at that.  Forgetting is easier for her, I guess."

William nodded.  "At least now she stays sober," he said wryly.  "Those first couple of years…"

"She told me," Lee said with a smile he seemed to reserve for that one woman, wistful and gentle.  Adama wondered if his son realized just how deeply he was in love with her, but he wasn't going to bring it up.  "Now she just sort of… ignores it.  I don't press her."

"But that doesn't make it easier for you, does it?" William asked softly.

"I miss Zak," he said again.  "But it doesn't hurt the way…"  He trailed off, and then seemed to begin again on another track entirely.  "Mom was always there.  She just was, and I could always call or complain or count on her.  Even if I was totally wrong, she'd stand up for me.  Even when I hurt her, she never let me know deliberately.  She couldn't hold a grudge, and she just… I don't know..."

After a moment of silence during which Lee wiped away a few more tears, his eyes still averted but his face no longer so impassive, William spoke.  "I suppose it sounds horrible," he said softly.  "But I'm so glad she never had to see this.  The war, the death; She deserved so much more than this.  Zak too, I guess, but he just never had a chance to live, or experience.  Your mother's life was full.  Zak's was just beginning."

Lee gave a noncommittal nod, but it didn't look like agreement.

"You don't think so?" William asked.

Finally Lee shrugged.  "I agree with you," he said.  "But that's for them.  Yes, Mom had a long life, and a good one, and she would have been the first to give hers up for someone else.  Zak was just starting out, and he was so damned eager for all of it.  Neither one of them was strong enough for this, and I know that.  But when I think of Zak, I hurt for him.  With Mom, it hurts for me."

William nodded.  "Losing parents, in its own way, is as bad as losing children.  You lose your… compass.  Parents are a home-base, and they're always there to reach from and come back to.  When they're gone, it's disorienting.  That's not something to feel selfish about.  I went through the same thing with your grandparents, and your mother never did get over losing her mother.  There were times she'd just sit and stare through the window, or days when she'd just start to cry.  She couldn't help it.  And if it happened enough that I saw it, even when I was home so little, then I can imagine it happened quite often.  It was how she handled the grief, and I can't fault her for it.  You're a lot like her that way, I suppose."

"At least you see that," Lee muttered with a tinge of bitterness.  "Kara just says to be glad for what time I had; she never even got that."

"She's jealous," William said with a wink.  "You and Zak had such wonderful parents."

Lee gave in to a smile, and Adama let out a sigh of relief.  He hadn't been an ideal parent at all, and he'd hoped the joke would bring back the son he knew rather than the frightened little boy who was kneeling next to him.  And that was what Lee was now, William realized.  He was lost – without that compass he'd earlier mentioned – and hurting.

"I know I'm not a replacement for your mother," William began.

"No," Lee said, cutting him off.  His voice was firm on this.  "And you won't be.  You weren't there, and I'm sorry if that upsets you but it's the truth.  I'm glad I still have you – more than glad – but there's just a hole there.  No one can fill it, Dad.  Not you, not Kara… it's just empty."

William tried not to take the rejection as harshly as it had been spoken.  His son was in pain, and he tended to lash out when that was the case.  The simple fact that he'd spoken about any of his feelings was quite a sign of trust given their history together.  At least Lee was talking, albeit more loudly than William might have liked.

"Well, this old man doesn't have the knees for this conversation here," William said gently.  He reached sideways, carefully picked up a candle and used it to transfer flame from the candle Lee had lit to two others.  He closed his eyes briefly, then used the rail to stand on legs which were nearly numb.  Kneeling had never been the best position for him.  "I'm off duty.  If you'd like to talk, Lee, I'll be in my room.  I… hope you know I'll listen.  I can't take anyone's place, and I would never try, but sometimes it helps to share memories with someone who has them as well."

With that, William Adama walked silently down the aisle of the tiny chapel, slipped through the door into the corridor, and squinted against the bright lights as he walked back to his room.

Lee Adama sat on the first pew in the chapel for a long time.  He didn't know how long; he didn't check his watch.  He'd been there for quite some time before his father had come in, and while he appreciated the fact that the older man was willing to listen, Lee wasn't sure he was ready to talk.  He didn't understand what he was feeling, or why he was feeling it.  Everyone had told him that time healed the pain of losing others, but it wasn't happening.  If anything, the loss of his mother was more acute now than it had been at the beginning of the war when so many others had died and they had all been running for their lives.

He had missed her then, but as his father had said, she was far too gentle for a war.  She had told Lee stories of the first Cylon war when he'd been growing up, and the terror of Cylon Raiders flying over their homes with weapons blazing had been with her still, forty years after the fact.  To have been thrust back into the same situation would have killed her slowly with fear.  Or maybe not; she had always been a strong woman.  She had never given herself credit for what she had done when he and Zak had been growing up.  Maybe she would have handled it as well as any of them.  It wasn't as though anyone had a choice either way.

Iilya Adama had been both mother and father to him on most occasions.  She had been a gentle listener, a strict disciplinarian, and a loving presence which he had adored as a child, tolerated as a teen, and appreciated as a man.

Lords, he missed her.  He missed her so much that when he thought of her a pain began in his chest that shortened his breathing and stung his eyes.  Four years.  Shouldn't it be easier after four years?  And yet it was harder now than it had ever been.  Why?  Hell if he knew.

Maybe it was all the changes in his life.  For all the chaos of running from the Cylons, he'd been allowed to do a lot of living in the last four years.  He had finally been able to get to know his father, professionally if not personally, and had developed an appreciation for the skills and abilities which had kept the eldest Adama from his family for so many years.  Put simply, his father was damned good at what he did.  Having seen that – knowing that his father, _his_ _father_ was responsible for the survival of the human race – went a long ways towards easing the resentment which had developed while Lee had watched his mother struggle to do it all while raising a family on her own.  His dad was a fairly amazing man, and well loved by his crew.  There was a reason for that; William Adama was dedicated to his ship and her people.  Lee couldn't fault him for that.  As CAG, he'd tasted the responsibility of command, and while he was good at it, Lee had to work at it.  He hadn't reached past the authority to the point where people could be both commanded by and comfortable with him.  He was still in the "command" stage.  He didn't know if either he or his troops would ever get to "comfortable".

He wanted his mother to know of the reconciliation which had occurred between him and his father.  He wanted her to know that all her years of asking Lee to understand, asking him not to be angry, had finally taken hold.  He wanted her to know that he understood the importance of family now more than ever, and that he appreciated what he'd had grown up with instead of resenting it.  He wanted her to know he had a wife.

He wanted her to hold her grandson.

His mother had loved Kara.  From the first time his father had dragged the foul-mouthed, fighting, filthy girl through the front door of the Adama home, Iilya had been thrilled to raise the daughter she'd always wanted.  She'd never forced the ribbons and dresses which most mothers insisted upon, although she certainly provided Kara with a feminine example from which to learn.  Kara had been allowed to choose her own way, as he and his brother had done.  When Kara and Zak had become engaged, his mother hadn't quibbled about them being as close as siblings or lacking in experience with other people, both concerns which Lee had voiced loudly.  She had just been happy for them.  Would she be as happy for him?  Would she approve of his relationship with Kara?  Would she even believe that Lee, her fiercely independent oldest boy, had finally cracked and fallen in love?

Lords, he wanted to ask.  He wanted her approval, and her advice, and her… presence.  He missed having someone who always believed in him.  His father was his commander, and had to be critical at least professionally.  Kara, for all her tolerance, was honest to a fault.  If Lee was in the wrong, she told him in no uncertain terms.  Lee loved that about her, and he needed the blunt honesty in his life.  But that didn't take away the need for unconditional acceptance, which he had only found in Iilya.  Unconditional love he had from Kara, but not the comfort his mother had provided.  Kara would comfort him – and often did, even when she didn't fully understand why he was upset about something – but there was always that objectivity which his mother had never managed.  Kara had the "can do nothing wrong" attitude with their son – a fact that Lee was grateful for at three in the morning when the boy demanded nursing – but it was something that was apparently reserved for mothers and their children and not wives with their husbands.  With his mom, Lee was her boy and he was right.  Period.  If he had made a mistake, he'd had to come to the admission on his own.

Maybe it was being a parent that had made losing her seem worse.  It had certainly been on his mind more often in the few months since the baby had been born.  His mother had loved babies, and he knew she'd love little Zak.  But Zak would never know his grandmother and she would never know him, and that just hurt.  It hurt, and Lee couldn't make the feeling go away.  He did his best not to bring it up with Kara as she was so emotional lately that he had learned to watch his step with her.  Also, his father hadn't been kidding when he'd said she had a history of  trouble with the week.  In previous years, she'd done everything from ignore it completely to drinking herself into oblivion.  This year, it appeared she was going to ignore it.  That was okay; Lee just lit an extra candle for her.  His mom deserved that much.

But in a way, Lee did understand. Kara had spent her first years with either cruel parenting or no parenting, and she had no memory at all of her mother.  She had loved his mom, but she had never allowed herself to really become attached.  From day one, Kara seemed to be waiting for her good fortune to fall through.  She had enjoyed growing up with them – or at least Lee thought she had – but she had never depended on them.  Maybe it had come from so many independent years while she was young, or maybe she was just a cynic by nature, but Kara hadn't turned to his mother the way Lee had.  She had lived on the edge of their family, held in by some gravitational force, and yet never orbiting closer than that.  Well, not until she'd hooked up with Zak, but for obvious reasons that was something Lee didn't dwell on.  She'd never really seemed to need them; appreciate them, yes, but not need them.

But Lee had needed his mom.  It seemed childish to him, even now, to think that.  But he had.  Zak, while he had been a great deal like their mom, seemed to idolize and relate to their dad more often, whereas Lee turned to their mother.  It really was funny if it came to that, because Lee was a good deal like their dad.  He supposed opposites must attract, balancing one another out.  Oddly, the two survivors weren't two that could do that for one another.  Then again, maybe that was just it.  He and his dad were survivors, whereas Zak and Mom had been the soft ones, smoothing out the rough edges and keeping things moderated and level.  Kara fell into that same category as well – a strong one.  It seemed that in a war, only the strong could survive.  The soft parts didn't make it very long without wearing down to nothing.

So Lee sat on the hard wooden pew and he thought, and he avoided going back to his room because he knew it would be obvious – at least to Kara – that he'd been crying, and he didn't want to go into it with her.  This week brought her own demons to the fore; she didn't need his as well.  Eventually he came to the realization that he'd been sitting long enough to be stiff and nearly drifting off.  The tears had finally stopped, although the ache continued, and he was grateful that his time had been uninterrupted but for his father's intrusion.  The last thing he needed was for one of his pilots to find the CAG in tears over his mother's birthday.  They still got in enough shots about him when they thought he wasn't listening; he didn't need to give them reason for more.

So he quietly left the chapel, his head nearly splitting at the pain caused by the bright corridor lighting combined with the tears he'd shed for the last… two hours.  Shaking his head even as he looked at his watch, Lee wondered where the time had gone.  He wasn't normally so morbid, even on family holidays.  This was out of character for him, and yet he couldn't seem to help himself.  But at the same time, the knowledge that all this heartache was because he missed his mommy seemed petty and useless.  It had been four years.  It was time to get over it.  It was time to move on.  Hell, it was time to go back to his room and give Kara a break so she could run or something and get a few minutes away from the baby.

And yet when he started walking, it wasn't towards his own door.  With a sense of unreality, he found himself at his father's hatch, staring at the gray metal.  It wouldn't be locked – there were no locks – but he couldn't bring himself to go in.

"Captain Adama?"

Lee turned at the voice, seeing Dee walking down the corridor towards him with a concerned expression.  It shouldn't have taken him off guard, though.  The Galactica was never still.  "Yeah?"

"Are you… okay?"

He could imagine what he looked like following a ten-hour shift and two hours bawling in the chapel.  "A little tired," he admitted, thinking it the understatement of the decade.  "But, I'm fine, Dee.  I'll get some sleep after I speak with the commander."

She nodded and walked past as he'd known she would at mention of Commander Adama, although she didn't look all that certain.  He couldn't blame her.  In her place, he wouldn't have let the situation drop at that, but then he outranked her and wasn't above using the privilege when one of his troops was acting strangely.  If he were to come across her looking as bad as he no-doubt did, she'd be on her way to Life Station.

The opening of the hatch before him came as a total surprise, even more so than Dee's words had. There was no way that he could have been heard through the hatchway.  Still, it wasn't the first time that William Adama had seemed almost psychic where his son was concerned.  Lee looked directly into the eyes of his father, brown rather than his own blue.  Lee's eyes were his mother's as well.  "Commander," he acknowledged.

His father didn't speak, but he stepped back and pulled the hatch with him, issuing a silent invitation.  With a reluctance he didn't quite understand, Lee accepted and walked into the tiny office/bedroom his father occupied.  It was actually even smaller than his own, but then when his room had been cleared it had been with Kara in mind and likely his father had realized that a baby couldn't be far behind.  It made sense that three people took up more space than only one, whatever the rank or privilege involved.  At his father's gesture – again without words – Lee took a seat in the single chair that the room boasted.  His father turned his back and returned a moment later with a cup of coffee, pressing it into his hands.  Through the metal cup, Lee felt the warmth of the liquid inside and realized for the first time just how cold he felt.

"Thanks."

His father nodded, then took a seat on the edge of his own bed.   Silence.  Lee had never known how his father could do it.  Even as a child, his dad had learned more from sitting silently until they squirmed beneath his gaze than his mother had ever found out by asking, nagging, or watching.  As it always had been, silence proved an effective weapon with Lee. That he had used the same weapon himself – and quite effectively at that – wasn't the issue at the moment.  After a few sips of coffee – one of the few perks that his father accepted in command of the Battlestar – Lee met his father's eyes. 

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.  "I know… I wasn't very polite earlier.  I didn't mean to interrupt your time there, or intrude on it."

His father smiled.  "I walked in on you," Adama reminded him.

"Yeah, well… you were a lot more polite than I was."

His father shook his head, the smile fading.  "Everyone grieves in their own way, their own time," he said.  "Even I forget that.  Maybe I've just seen too much death over the years.  I don't even know anymore.  I was born into war – lost my father to it – and was raised to believe in a patriotism that was so fierce it was unreal.  I imposed that on you and your brother," he added.  "Hell, probably Kara as well, come to think of it."

"You never talked about the war," Lee said, taking another sip of coffee.

"Nothing to talk about," William said with a frown.  "People fought, men died.  It wasn't like this, Lee.  It was… face to face.  The majority of the battles were eye to eye rather than the enemy sneaking in and us running as far and fast as we could.  But something in that fear – that facing if your enemy – makes you think differently.  I met your mother just after the war ended, when it was all so uncertain and peace seemed like an illusion.  A part of me was so amazed that she didn't just run screaming that I didn't think of the consequences of marrying her and being in the Service as well."  He released a sigh, and seemed to be looking over Lee's shoulder into some distant past.  "At the end of the war, everyone seemed to be getting out.  The Service cut back to essential positions, and the potential for promotion was high if you stayed in.  I suppose I was ambitious in a way; I thought I could have both your mother and a career."

"You did," Lee admitted.  "Just because you weren't there, it doesn't mean she wasn't yours.  She talked about you all the time."

William Adama gave a sarcastic smile.  "I can imagine."

Lee shook his head.  "She never said a word against you," he said softly.  "Not even when we'd catch her holding your wedding picture and crying.  She said you had to do what you were born for, and at the time I was furious about it.  Zak understood it more, and respected it.  I was just mad that Mom was crying.  Now I can see what you faced, though.  I couldn't give up flying, and thankfully I don't have to.  But it's hard to go on a long patrol and know that Kara's here, and the baby too.  It's hard to know that if something happens…"

"She's a wonderful mother," his father said after a moment of silence.  Lee was grateful; he hadn't wanted to complete the thought.  "Somehow I didn't see that coming.  I guess I should have."

"There's not much Kara can't do," Lee said with a grin.

"Except understand this," his father said softly.

Lee nodded, although it felt like a betrayal to do so.  To admit that Kara was incapable of anything seemed insane; she was the most capable woman he'd ever met.  "She tries," Lee said, attempting to ease the sting of his agreement.  "But she's never lost someone she really depended on."

"That's because she's never depended on anyone," William said.  "Not even us."

"You caught that, huh?"  It was such an echo of his previous thoughts that a chill traveled up Lee's spine.

"I pray she never understands," his father said quietly.  "But someday she will.  Someday she'll care enough about someone that losing them tears her apart.  And when it happens, there won't be a word that anyone can say, or a thing anyone can do to help her.  And for those of us who love her, that will be the hardest thing in the world to watch.  Losing Zak almost killed her, and she wasn't really reliant on him; she just loved him.  That doesn't sound like a difference, but it is.  If they'd been married a few years, or even… together a few years, the way you two have been, then I don't think she would have survived it.  Grief is a frightening thing.  It defies strength and training and even desire.  No, she can't help you through this, but would you really want her to be able to?"

Lee thought about that for a moment, allowing the words to penetrate the self-pity that he'd been wallowing in.  His wife hadn't understood; she hadn't really done more than sympathize and even that seemed to be an effort, but it wasn't because she didn't love him.  It was because she didn't know how, and as his father said, he really didn't want her to learn.  "No," he finally answered.

"You do realize they're still here, don't you?"  William asked.

Lee's eyes met his father's in confusion, the question in his expression.

"You mother.  Zak.  Lords, all I have to do is look at you and I see both of them.  You have her eyes, and her smile, and that same determination to get things done yourself and to hell with how anyone else wants it done.  Zak's there as well.  I see him in your son, and sometimes in Kara's laugh when she gets to giggling.  For the longest time he was the only one who could pull that out of her, make her act like the child she'd never had a chance to be."  He gave a wistful smile.  "Now you do that for her, so I suppose I see him in you as well.  But your son…"  Adama shook his head, and for a moment the smile was gone and Lee wondered if his father would begin crying.  "He could be his twin at that age.  Right up until he opens his eyes, that is.  Zak was born with brown eyes, but the baby's are as blue as yours.  But when he smiles in his sleep, it's like going back in time.  They're with us, Son.  They're all around us."

"It doesn't feel that way," Lee said, and he knew his voice sounded sullen.

"Some days it doesn't.  And some days… I talk to your mother more than when she was alive," he admitted with a sideways glance.  "I knew her well enough to know what she'd say, or what she'd want.  So when I want her advice, I just ask… and usually the answer's there.  It may be in a memory of something she did, or in something she'd once said.  But she's there for me, Lee.  I just have to look for her.  And if sometimes I wish there were more… well, that's my issue not hers.  She did her work, served her time with me.  She taught me all she could, Lee.  What I do with that – how I use the knowledge – isn't her responsibility.  It's the same with your brother.  Yes, I miss him, and some days are harder than others.  But I have the knowledge that he was raised to make his own choices, and to do what he felt was right.  And I have the knowledge that he was happy, or at least mostly happy.  He died doing what he wanted, engaged to a beautiful woman, with a future as bright as the heavens.  He went out like a blaze of light, Son.  What more could I wish for him?  Years on an overcrowded Battlestar with protein hash for meals and air that's been recycled a hundred-million times?  No.  He deserved better.  You do as well, but I content myself with the knowledge that you have a lovely wife and a beautiful son, and you fly like a bat out of hell.  Maybe it's not perfection, but I think some days you're happy.  At least I hope you are; and it's selfish of me because I'm not ready to be alone, but it's the truth."

"Some days," Lee agreed.  "Most days," he admitted.  "And maybe that's the problem.  How can I be happy when they didn't get the chance?"

His father smiled.  "They did," he corrected.  "The pain isn't theirs, Son.  It's ours.  We're the ones who have to live on, and we do that any way we can.  I think you've done it very well, and better than I expected you to.  Don't expect more of yourself than you're ready for.  I can't tell you the pain will end – you won't stop missing them – but the longer you hurt, the less purpose that pain serves.  At some point you have to let it go."

Lee looked down into his cup, now empty and cold.  Thankfully, he wasn't.  "How long until I stop going around in circles?" he asked softly.

William Adama smiled.  "I don't know," he admitted.  "There are days when I revisit all of it; the grief, and the loss, and the pain.  Birthdays are the hardest, because I always feel like I'm forgetting to do something.  But candles in the chapel have taken the place of candles on the cake, and the traditions don't end but rather change.  And yes, we go in circles, but with any luck at all they're ever widening.  The pain is less frequent, if not less intense.  It's never gone, though."

Lee didn't say a word, but sat there, thinking about what his father had said.  He did so for long moments, until he heard his father's voice again.

"And, Son, we have to look at what we have now.  In your room, you have a wife who loves you, which proves there's no accounting for taste.  And you have a baby who's warm and smells good most of the time.  And you have a future, however uncertain it may look some days.  You have more than you've lost, Lee.  Much more; you just have to look for it."

And his father was right, Lee realized.  He did have a lot.  He had Kara, and little Zak, and about sixteen hours in which to get some sleep and make love to his wife, until his next patrol.  Then he'd have his Viper and wide-open space, the power of flight, and the knowledge that his family was waiting for him to come home, however temporary that home might be.  And he had time, too.  He didn't have to get over it all today, or tomorrow, or even in this lifetime.  Grief was something that was revisited again and again, and if that was difficult, then it also served as a way to grow – a way to see what he _did_ have.  "I need to get to bed," he finally said, unable to look his father quite in the eye, feeling both embarrassed by the realizations his father had shared and the knowledge that he hadn't come to them on his own.  "Kara's going to be worried as it is, and if she doesn't get in a run before I go to sleep she'll add mad to the worried and life will be a living hell for a while."

"She has that ability," his father agreed.  "Give her a kiss from me, and tell her we were talking.  Trust me, she'll forgive you."

"That's probably all that will do it," Lee said with a wry grin.  "And thanks… for listening."

"I'm always here, Son," Adama said gently.  "No, I'm not your mother.  I never will be.  But I did know her well enough to know what she'd say most of the time, so if you need to hear it feel free to come by."

"I'd like that," Lee said, and with some surprise he realized he meant it.  As many times as his father had offered, this was the first time Lee had really listened and had given him the chance to share a part of his past, and in an odd way it did heal the hole that was inside him.  It didn't fill it, but it… formed a patch of sorts.  Or maybe a bridge was closer to the truth.  It was something that connected them, however fragile it might be.  It reminded him that they shared more than just a name; they shared a love of the same people, and a good deal of the same memories.

And it also reminded him that grief shared – even grief revisited – was a burden more easily borne.  So if his father wanted to share that burden, he would let him.  Maybe he hadn't let his father do enough for him in recent years.  Maybe his dad deserved the chance.  And maybe, just maybe, next year would be a little easier than this one had been.


End file.
